A Lapse in Judgement
by Alias-vendor
Summary: John discovers that the lines of sexuality are rather more blurred than he had been led to believe. John/Sherlock.


Summary: John discovers that the lines of sexuality are rather more blurred than he had been led to believe.

…

John's morning began, as it usually did, with the kind of discovery that left him wondering how he maintained a healthy weight when his forays for food so often ended prematurely.

'Sherlock,' he couldn't even muster his usual stab of animosity, 'there are toes in the freezer. Actual, human, _toes_.' His skin prickled from the cold as he stared the offending phalanges down. Was it sad or just downright horrifying that he wasn't even surprised anymore?

'Why yes John,' Sherlock drawled from his position on the couch. 'What other kind of toes would you expect to find?' His voice was flat, uninterested, but John could tell the git gained some perverse amusement from his discomfort. If he didn't, he wouldn't even have commented.

'Well, yes,' John felt his cheeks start to burn and quickly closed the freezer. 'My point is: dear God, why?' He moved instead to the kettle and flicked it on. His long robe flared around his calves as he reached up to grab his favourite mug from its place on the protruding shelf.

'Experiment,' Sherlock said lazily, 'obviously.'

John glanced over as the other man flicked his hands out in an obscenely grand and sweeping movement that he supposed was meant to indicate his level of ignorance. Sherlock was spread out on the couch, his back to the kitchen, curly head resting on the arm as he stared up at the ceiling, presumably for inspiration. It was another of his eccentric habits, though one of the less irritating ones.

The kettle whistled at him and he turned back to it, placing his mug on the bench.

'Tea?' He asked as he plopped his bag in and poured the hot water over it. He swirled the bag around as the water slowly stained the colour of old parchment.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible and waved his hand again. John took it as a yes and filled another cup with a different tea bag before setting the kettle down.

'…the bed was MADE!' Sherlock shouted suddenly. He flailed around on the couch as John irritably wiped up the tea he'd spilt when he'd nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected commotion.

'Oh yes, this is it.' Sherlock crowed, his voice deep with delight. '…the bed was _made_. Ah but why would it be made…unless…?' His eyes lit up and he leapt from the couch like a cat chasing after a scuttling insect. Somehow he managed to avoid tripping over the various piles of junk strewn across the room as he darted about.

'Where is it?' He muttered, 'oh, where _is_ it?'

John held the coat out wordlessly, sipping tea calmly from his mug. He had settled down at the table during Sherlock's search, legs crossed comfortably with the newspaper open in front of him. He hummed tunelessly to himself and flipped the page.

Sherlock looked up from his search, spotted the coat, and was over in seconds. He wrenched it from John's grasp, slipped it on over his grey turtleneck and bolted for the stairs, stopping only to wind a red scarf around his neck and grab the keys he kept on a peg by the door.

'Bye.' John said absently, well used to his abrupt departures.

The door smacked against the hinges as he thumped down the stairs. There was another slam, and then silence blanketed the building.

John sipped his tea and wondered when this had become his definition of normal.

…

10/96 PRESTON DRIVE.

COME URGENTLY.

BRING TOES.

John read the text messages with an expression of trepidation tugging at the corner of his mouth. What were the chances that Sherlock was simply reminding him that toes were necessary for balanced motion?

He sighed, reminded himself that he was a doctor and had seen _far_ worse than a few refrigerated toes, and flung the freezer door open with an embellishment that was wasted on the empty room. The door smacked against the wall as he grabbed the offending jar of body parts and placed them in a small cooler. He filled it with ice, nabbed a small chip to suck on, and closed the lid.

He was out the door within minutes, coat snug around his shoulders and cooler tucked securely under his arm. As he hailed a cab he considered the cosmic injustice of having spent the better part of a decade in med school only to wind up ferrying severed toes to a sociopathic madman with a suspicious penchant for scarves.

…

When he stepped out of the cab it was to a scene of varying shades of chaos. Three police cars, two fire engines, and a rather dilapidated ambulance were parked outside a fairly innocuous looking house. Or the lower floor, at least, resembled the ordinary house one might find on the outskirts of London. The upper floor, however, was burning merrily with no apparent regard for the firemen who were trying to put it out.

He was saved from even the slightest twinge of concern by a very loud, distinctive, voice yelling at an equally loud, and no less distinctive, though slightly more feminine, one.

As he made his way over to the arguing pair there was a worrying sort of groan from the building that sent the firemen scurrying backwards like ants from a magnifying glass.

'How much longer must I suffer your continued stupidity?' Sherlock seemed to be launching into a soliloquy on the inferiority of lesser human beings.

John took pity on the unfortunate, though very likely deserving, Sergeant and interrupted with a firm cough.

'John?' Sherlock broke away from his victim, 'excellent. The toes.' He accepted the cooler John thrust at him and then darted away without another word.

John watched him go, his ridiculous coat swishing around his ankles like something out of a medieval film.

'Bloody thankless freak.' Sally Donovan muttered, her brown eyes narrowed in a glare.

'Solved you a murder, though.' John pointed out, sticking his now liberated hands into his pockets and raising an eyebrow for effect.

'Hmph,' Sally grumbled and brushed a clump of soot-stained black hair behind her ear. 'Thanks for the rescue,' she added. 'Really thought I was going to get the whole damn speech this time.'

'You were,' John confirmed. 'Always starts with "how much longer".' He shared a brief smile with the Sergeant, who punched him lightly in the arm before she wandered off and left him staring at the spot where Sherlock had been minutes earlier.

'You must be John Watson.' A man he didn't recognise came up beside him and stuck a hand out for him to shake. 'Kent Hanson.'

'Pleasure.' John shook the offered hand as he turned to take in the stranger. He was tall, blond, and wearing the uniform that marked him as a copper. Having assessed and dismissed the man as uninteresting he returned his gaze to Sherlock who was engaged in what could only be described as a verbal pissing match with two of the firefighters.

'Must be nice.' Kent said wistfully, his gaze following John's own.

John turned to look at him in confusion.

'Brilliant mind like that?' Kent continued, his blue eyes trained on Sherlock. 'Who wouldn't want to be around him?' He cut his gaze to John briefly and gave him a salacious grin, 'packaging ain't too bad either, if you take my meaning.'

John blinked, baffled, and then scowled.

'I don't.' He said stiffly.

'You two aren't..?' Kent questioned and then flashed an ungodly amount of straight teeth at him, 'your loss.'

Sherlock, of course, chose that moment to throw his arms up in exasperation and storm over to John with an expression that typically meant he was going to spend the next few hours, at least, engaged in his own special brand of sullen brooding. Which involved a great deal less silence, and more irritation, than the term usually suggested.

'Bunch of brainless bees,' he announced with a healthy dose of venom. His customary scowl was etched onto his face and his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

'Bees?' John queried, momentarily forgetting the offending Kent.

'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock huffed but rolled his eyes and engaged the patience he only ever reserved for John's ignorance. 'Bees share a collective mind,' he explained, a little less angsty since he rather liked the topic, 'they don't think for themselves.' He snorted, 'rather like this lot.'

He turned and started to stalk away, obviously expecting John to follow, but was stopped when Kent stepped in front of him.

'Hey,' Kent smiled, a little dimple forming in his cheek. 'I'm Kent Hanson.'

John glowered darkly at the blond man but very shortly had to stifle laughter when Sherlock simply looked at him blankly and then moved to walk around him.

A line of irritation creased Kent's brow at the silent rebuff but he persisted, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of Sherlock's coat.

'I thought what you did today was awesome.' The blond man dug his fingers a little deeper into the coat, 'it was so amazing how you figured it out just because the bed was all done up.'

Sherlock looked at the man with the same expression of surprise and disbelief he'd given John when he'd first called him "brilliant".

John felt a pang of jealousy but had no time to stew in it. Sherlock glanced down at the hand curling itself into his coat and then fixed its owner with a penetrating glare.

'What do you want?' His tone bordered on curious and was far less offended than John had hoped.

'Dinner,' Kent smirked. 'With you.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow so high it nearly vanished into his curly hair.

'What could I possibly hope to gain from such an endeavour?' He still sounded curious, though John could hear boredom trailing his words.

'Why, the pleasure of my company…' Kent slid his hand down Sherlock's arm.

'I asked what I would gain,' Sherlock said coldly, 'not what I would have to endure.'

John lost the battle to contain his laughter so epically that several heads turned his way at the ridiculous snort that forced its way into the air.

Sherlock turned to look at him, the bafflement clear on his pale face.

John laughed harder as Kent took the opportunity to slink away, face burning, and only stopped when he realised that Sherlock was studying him with the intense focus he applied to especially difficult cases. That could _not_ bode well for him.

'You're not going to tell me off for being rude?' There was a hint of something in Sherlock's voice, something almost sly. He was angling after something, asking questions he knew the answers to. It was a tactic he often resorted to when he wanted to discuss something he suspected John would have difficulty with. The only form of tact he could ever be accused of possessing.

'I didn't like that guy.' John replied carefully as they began walking along the street. He resisted the urge to turn his head, afraid to see what kind of knowing was in Sherlock's piercing eyes.

'Ah.'

John could hear the smirk in his voice. He burrowed his hands further into his jacket and prepared for the worst.

'What was it you objected to?' Sherlock started off, fairly harmlessly. 'His generally unlikeable person, or his tactless attempt to "pick me up"?'

There it was.

'Bit of both, really.' John said lightly, still refusing to glance over. He was thwarted when Sherlock stopped suddenly and tugged his arm until he turned to face him. His eyes, dark in the shadows of the street, were narrowed and his lips pursed in a manner John didn't often see. Even in the shadows his skin was so pale the only points of colour were drawn out by the red scarf wound around his neck. Without it he would have looked a ghost.

'John,' he released his arm and returned his hand to his coat pocket. 'While I have, at times, been called oblivious I have _never_ been accused of being unobservant.' He paused then and looked expectantly at John, seemingly waiting for him to infer the subject-matter.

'Perish the thought.' John said weakly. He was almost entirely certain he didn't want to have this conversation. When Sherlock simply continued to stare at him, eyes still narrowed and even a tiny furrow in his brow, he sighed.

'Why are you asking questions you know the answer to?'

'I haven't asked you a question.' Sherlock pointed out.

'Yes, you have.' John met his gaze evenly and made it clear that he was not going to talk about it unless Sherlock was the one to bring it up verbally.

'John,' Sherlock began, then paused. 'I am not gay.' He said bluntly.

John blinked, a little thrown, but nodded.

'I know. We've had this conversation.' He rubbed the back of his neck, teeth skimming his bottom lip. 'You're straight, I get it.' He attempted to smile reassuringly, although he suspected it just came off as strained.

'Ah no, you see, that is incorrect.' Sherlock said, strangely verbose.

'You're _not_ straight?' John somehow managed to sound like he hadn't just been thrown a completely unexpected curveball.

'No.'

'…but you're not gay?' John scrunched his nose in confusion.

'Must I be one or the other?' Sherlock huffed, his curls bouncing along his forehead with his irritation.

'Well, ye-' John started to say.

'And no, I am not both.' Sherlock interrupted snappily.

'Alright…' John said slowly, 'uh, then what are you?'

'Must you have a label?' Sherlock asked, and then ploughed on without waiting for an answer. 'Oh very well then, I am asexual.'

John blinked as the term rang a bell that flung his mind back to past biology lectures.

'…like a flower?'

Sherlock snorted indelicately. 'I have no sexual desires, and certainly none concerning specific people.'

'The implication being a paraphilia?' John joked weakly, putting the pieces together in his mind. It wasn't entirely unexpected in fact, if he was honest, it was completely unsurprising. He hadn't known there was a name for it, but he'd never seen Sherlock show interest in _anyone_. He barely even acknowledged most people's existence, let alone their status as a potential sex partner.

'I am not interested in sex.' Sherlock repeated as if John had been bugging him about doing just that. His expression was slightly pinched, his eyes narrowed and his lips drawn into a tight line, and John realised, with a start, that the other man was concerned about his reaction.

'Alright,' he said, nodding, and then paused as something occurred to him. 'But don't you…I mean, do you ever…? Erm, I mean what about…you know..?' John inwardly cursed his prudishness, he was a doctor, damnit, not an unmarried catholic girl.

Sherlock seemed to catch on easily enough despite the fact that John hadn't managed to get out a single noun or meaningful sentence.

'Such things are easily taken care of,' he shrugged, an elegant shift of shoulders, 'and do not require another party.' He seemed completely unperturbed by the topic of conversation, his cheeks pale where John's own were dusted a light pink.

'Oh my God, we're not having this conversation.' John declared loudly, 'I am not discussing this with you.' He could feel his cheeks starting to burn, the warmth creeping up to the tips of his ears.

'Why ever not?' Sherlock's lips curved into a wicked smile, 'oh I see…are you embarrassed, John?' It wasn't really a question despite the preposition.

'Of course I'm bloody well embarrassed!' John scowled at him, 'for Christ's sake Sherlock, we're not discussing the _weather_.'

'No,' Sherlock said mildly, 'we are not.' His pale eyes crinkled in amusement and his voice was a deep rumble in his chest.

John thought he'd better cut in before Sherlock started elaborating on the subject-matter.

'What about Irene Adler?' He crossed his arms, twisting his fingers into the soft fabric of his jacket.

Sherlock's amusement faded and he shifted slightly to the right, but his gaze didn't falter.

'A lapse in judgement.' He obviously sensed John was going to ask for clarification, 'She was…a momentary fascination; one I indulged perhaps longer than necessary, but nothing more.'

'A lapse in judgement,' John repeated incredulously. 'You?'

'I am not infallible, John.' Sherlock said in a rare moment of modesty.

'I'm just shocked to hear you admit it.'

'Hmm,' Sherlock mused, and then startled John with a bark of warm laughter. 'Yes, well perhaps that is why I did. You do make the most intriguing faces…'

John scowled at him but ignored the comment in favour of pursuing a more interesting line of thought.

'She was a fascination,' he furrowed his brow. 'What exactly does that mean, then?'

'She caught my interest,' Sherlock said simply. 'She was an enigma, a puzzle. Once I had solved her, she ceased to interest me.'

'Are we all just puzzles to you?' John asked after a pregnant pause. He was completely thrown by the sheer level of emotion he'd felt at Sherlock's words. 'Am I?'

The idea that Sherlock, a man whom he viewed – perhaps rather optimistically – as a close friend, might simply think of him in such a trivial way…suddenly, he didn't want to know the answer.

'Never mind.' He shook his head to clear it and offered the still silent man a wan smile. He turned and began walking and, after a few beats, he heard Sherlock move off after him. The other man's long stride allowed him to catch up easily and before long they were side by side. They walked to the taxi rank in a heavy silence so absolute it was deafening.

When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock slipped out of the cab and left John to pay the Cabbie without even sparing him a glance. He paid the man grumpily, counting notes and coins with more venom then they deserved, and then ascended the stairs. The door to their apartment had been left wide open and he could see a mop of curly hair spilled over the arm of the couch. John closed the door behind him and hung his jacket on a peg beside it. As he passed the couch he saw Sherlock's hands were steepled under his chin in the pose he often adopted when serious thinking was required. Closer examination revealed that his arms were free of Nicotine patches – a small mercy, John supposed. He climbed the stairs that led to his room, kicking off his shoes at the top step, and collapsed onto his bed. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling until he was overcome with the desire to close his eyes and the world drifted away.

…

He woke to the momentarily frightening sight of Sherlock looming over him with an expression he imagined belonged on the face of a serial killer. The sight startled him so badly he would've punched the man in the face if his arms hadn't been numb with pins and needles. As it was, he swore loudly and creatively and leapt off of the bed. Sherlock took a measured step backwards as he did so, ensuring that John didn't bowl straight into him.

'Sherlock, you can't just-'

'John,' Sherlock said, and there was something in his voice that quelled John's anger. 'I have _never_ been able to figure you out.' His lips, pressed into a tight line, twitched slightly. 'Perhaps…perhaps I don't want to.'

John paused, and took him in; his mussed dark hair, his pale skin unnaturally flushed and haunted shadows in his wide eyes. He thought he understood, finally, what it had all been about but he had to be sure.

'Why were you telling me…all that…yesterday?' He said slowly.

He watched as Sherlock's stance shifted, his weight settling over his back foot, and his arm curled just over his side in an unconscious defensive gesture.

'You asked,' he deflected.

'No.' John shook his head, '_you _started the conversation. Why?' He didn't realise he'd taken a step forward until suddenly Sherlock was that much closer. The taller man stood his ground, though John could see he was warring with his fight or flight response mechanism. Indecision flickered in his pale eyes, a rare and foreign event. He clearly wanted to abandon the conversation, despite the fact that he'd started it.

'This is the only time I'll ask.' John sighed after half a minute had elapsed in tense silence. 'Then it's on you if you want to bring it up again. I'm done.'

'I…don't want to lose you.' Sherlock said quietly. He met John's gaze evenly.

'What makes you think you will?" John asked, mildly offended. If Sherlock thought that he could just up and walk away from…whatever they had, then he must have a pretty low opinion of one of them.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow that John interpreted as, "bitch please, I'm _Sherlock Holmes_".

'Well you won't,' John sighed. 'You're my friend, I'm not just going to walk away because you can't understand that blowing the kitchen up every second Tuesday isn't _normal_.'

He'd thought the joke might provide some relief from the tension, instead it seemed to make the other man even more uncomfortable.

Sherlock visibly deflated, if only a little, but seemed determined to press forward.

'Ah, you see,' he said carefully, 'that isn't enough.'

John frowned, 'what do you mean?'

'I want your full attention,' Sherlock said simply, 'I am selfish, John. I want you all to myself.' His lips twitched in a parody of a smile, 'you see I don't much like sharing.'

'…Oh.' John blinked at him as his heart thumped loudly in his chest. Adrenaline was racing through his body, his pulse hammering.

'I don't want to lose you,' Sherlock repeated, 'but I don't know what I can offer you that would entice you to stay.'

John recovered long enough to stammer out, 'I'm here aren't I?'

'For now.' Sherlock said darkly. 'However, at some point in the future, one of your various trysts will likely become permanent and you will leave. I should like to prevent that.' He managed to make it sound so clinical, so dry, but the clenching muscles in his jaw revealed the true tension within.

'You silly sod,' John said affectionately. 'In case you haven't noticed – I happen to like you. God knows why, yes maybe, but I do.' He could feel heat burning in his cheeks, and the back of his neck was flushed, but it felt good to clear the air.

'Of course I noticed, John, I'm not blind.' Sherlock huffed, 'but how long can it last when I can never return your affections?'

'Can't you?' John challenged, taking a decidedly forward step into the other man's space.

'I am not interested in sex,' Sherlock said immediately.

'It's not all about sex.' John informed him and for once, to his delight, Sherlock actually looked stumped.

'That's not what people usually say.'

'Had this conversation before, have you?' John asked, genuinely curious.

'No.' Sherlock admitted, 'my conclusion is based upon research. John,' he said gravely, 'you are the only person I have _ever_ been afraid to lose.' His voice was strangely raw, and he seemed to curl in upon himself as he said it – almost as if he wished he could pluck the words out from the air the moment they left his mouth.

'I'm not going to leave,' John had to resist the urge to reach out and just _hug_ the sadness out of him – he wasn't sure quite where they stood on that front. 'Not voluntarily.'

'I cannot give you what you want.'

'You don't even know what I want.' John countered irritably.

'You want sex.' Sherlock said bluntly, 'of course you do. Your attraction to people is rooted in their sexual appeal – it's perfectly normal.'

'How would you know?' John demanded, 'you just assume, you never ask.'

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment.

'What _do _you want, John?'

It was as close to a concession as John was likely to get.

'I want _you_,' he said simply. 'In any way I can get you…and if that's only every Sunday for a cup of tea, then it'll be enough. Even if it means I spend the rest of my life in some strange parody of a relationship, sharing my space with all manner of dodgy individuals and my fridge with severed body parts, and absolutely no sex, well then I'll deal with that. If that's what it takes,' he said, 'then I'm happy.'

'…why?' Sherlock breathed, disbelief plain in his wide eyes.

'You're the detective,' John said quietly, 'if you can't figure that out, you'd probably best consider retiring.'

'No, no, this isn't right.' Sherlock muttered almost to himself. His gaze skittered away from John's, 'I'm not worth it. I'll drive you crazy.' The expression in his eyes was so haunted that John suspected he was reciting something he'd been told, perhaps many times in the past.

'You already do,' he said carefully, 'I'll live.' He reached out, tentatively, to touch the other man's shoulder. 'You _are_ worth it.'

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his shoulder, where John's hand was resting, and then darted up to his eyes.

'If I was capable of more…' He lifted his hand as if he was about to touch John, but aborted the gesture with a sudden jerk.

'Listen to me,' John said firmly. 'You are enough. You're more than enough. We can't have everything in this life, Sherlock. There are always sacrifices, and _you_ _are worth it_.'

John could only imagine how tough it was to battle years of believing you were only as good as the problems you solved for other people, in order to accept that someone might love you for anything, and everything, else. He seemed to have said it enough times though, that Sherlock was starting to believe him. It probably helped that, in general, he was a fairly lousy liar.

'I didn't think…when I told you…' Sherlock shook his head, but there was something light in the movement. 'I am continually proven wrong about you, John.'

'You expect the worst,' John observed, 'it's not unreasonable when you're rarely proven wrong.'

'No, it was unfair to you.' Sherlock said gravely, 'you've always been a better man than I've given you credit for.'

'You could stand to mention it more often,' John agreed.

Sherlock smiled at him, the corners of his mouth lifting in a subtle, but noticeable, way.

'I suppose now you'll be wanting to "cuddle" all the time.' He said dramatically, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

Then he strode forward and enveloped John in what he could only assume was meant to be a hug. It was strange and awkward and any onlookers would likely have feared for John's life, but to him it just felt _right_. Sherlock, thankfully, didn't smell like decay or even the unidentifiable chemicals he spent so much of his time with, instead he smelt more like the star anise he liked to put in his tea. He was clearly unversed in hug etiquette, and John entertained the idea that this might even be the first time he'd voluntarily initiated one.

'Am I doing it right?' He questioned in true Sherlock fashion.

John considered; the hug was warm and solid, and the man against him was _real_ and _his_.

'Yes, it's perfect.'

…

A/N: Thanks for reading.


End file.
